Message in a bottle

It makes me very happy that these words have reached you. I know that may seem like an odd thing to say, but everything seems to have an extra sense of fragility to it now. Small things bear incredible importance and these words are cast out like paper in a glass bottle; travelling across wavey-water. I’m happy that they’ve reached you but also that you’ve taken the time from your day to read them, because (and I say this with pride) we’re a fairly modest affair at the best of times, but as a band in lockdown we really have little to report; we’re empty of both adventure and anecdote. But the fact that you’re here shows you’re taking comfort in the small things, and in these times there’s a lot to be said for that.

I should probably mention that this is The Bass Player reporting (you can now switch the voice in your head to something a little less articulate than the singer’s LAMDA trained tones) and although I eagerly accepted the singer’s offer to take this one, I must admit it’s been a bit of a challenge. I, like many others, have navigated these past weeks through routine and ritual, but creativity has rarely found space amongst them. I’ve noticed the piano player and more recently the singer sharing brilliant new songs and ideas. Outside of the band I’ve seen imaginative videos and witty satire all dreamed up from life in lockdown, and whilst it brings a smile to my face my bass stays firmly on its stand. I have found some solace elsewhere though. Clambering after my 10-month-old daughter as she scales the stairs, listening to her interact with inanimate objects, laughing as she guzzles tea from her tippy cup like a drunk in a seedy bar; almost showboating as most of it pours down her front. Life from her level is unfathomably vast, lockdown means nothing, the boundaries non-existent. And I’ve found refuge in daytime TV. ’Pointless’ is a regular feature in our house, a quiz show which I soon realised was only a gateway drug to the harder stuff of ‘Richard Osman’s House of Games’. It’s a slippery slope. I’ve also developed a strong ability to hold my breath at random times, maybe in a supermarket queue when someone’s extra close, or out walking when someone crosses my path. I’ve gone through a lot of the mental and physical processes that I’m sure many of you have; denial, grief, an urge to plant vegetables in any available plot or pot, gratitude, joy, baking, tears, jogging. And while we all sacrifice things - big and small - and while some of us go through immense grief and others go through little revelations, the world takes one massive breather. The sky’s get clearer, the birds sing louder, and I don’t think we’ll ever be the same.

“Make sure you say something about the band’s future” the singer’s voice chirps in - not literally of course; we’re both sticking to curfew - but he did give me a very brief brief and so far I’ve ignored it entirely. I’m sure you would do the same, there’s a lot of scope for where this could all go! But a new album has been suggested more than once, and in amongst the haze ahead of us our next record does feel fairly tangible. How could it not when the piano player has already decided who’ll be producing it (“you will Osc”) and where it will be recorded (“mainly in the Welsh mountains, with some pick-ups recorded at my house in Crean, the occasional overdub captured in your shed and the rest at my dad’s new place in Italy.”) Perfect, it’s all settled then! But on a serious note the songs being created now are unified in spirit and deserve to be kept together, more than that we think they’ll make something good.

Now the last part of this entry I’m not sure will make the final cut. The singer, perhaps rightly so, may decide it’s not in keeping with the blog and perhaps there’ll be a little photo of something or a just blank space instead. But if it does stay in here it is; I wrote a poem. I don’t usually do poems so someone may point out that it doesn’t follow the right rules and regulations, in which case I’ll just call it a collection of words. And although it’s not in keeping with the usual structure of our band’s blog it still felt apt; like those who are producing music, art and all else from lockdown, some confines (in this case a poem rather than four walls) can aid creativity. The subject too felt right; like the horrible virus that we hear too much about at the moment, this thing also can’t be seen, can travel huge distances, spread rapidly and give you a temperature. It’s a little lightness for you with the intention to bring some joy and it’s about love (but don’t worry, I only mention the L word once) …

I can sometimes picture all love as a thread, woven from things that are older than us

It’s delicate and only seen in certain lights, but stronger than silk with spool everlasting

Once cast out, these threads intertwine, loop, and double back on themselves

Creating tapestry’s and tangles; depending on the angle

Some may not find the intended target, but land somewhere new and that’s ok

Some shine iridescent while others get weathered and become a trip hazard

Some break, or are broken

Some of the best ones span oceans and land, while some needn’t reach any further than your hand

Sometimes two people are towed together by a thread that has tied them throughout all of their lives, it can take years and years until they’re even in the same room

Some weave these threads into quilts for themselves, and once they’ve learnt this they can make quilts for others too

But I don’t think it was always thread, when we were new it ran more like a river

Spilling its banks and flooding these streets

In its innocence it was less constrained, less selective or purposefully aimed

In its expanse it could fill a sea, evaporate, and fall again as raindrops

Maybe we learnt that that wasn’t the way, and a committee decided to ration what we share

But threads still form webs that can cover great distances

Maybe these threads formed the guide ropes that led us here; led us to where our bodies began

And maybe when the final curtain is drawn we’ll smile when we recognise the fabric